


Good Tidings of Christmas (and other assorted misconceptions)

by Ler



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Dinner, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ler/pseuds/Ler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was the best and the worst christmas dinner Dawn ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Tidings of Christmas (and other assorted misconceptions)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Secret Santa Gift for Pigzpony! I hope you like it! Merry Christmas. <3

  
  


_ Sunny _

 

"We have to do something.» 

 

Sunny should have known better, really. He should have, and yet, and yet, here he was, ankles deep in christmas tree decorations, tangled lights in his hands that did not abide to the wishes of the world and decided to stay in a comfortable ball of wiring and colorful bulbs, and staring up at the ceiling of the room, or so he said to himself, while his eyes wandered up a pair of thin elegant tender marvelous calves, pass the skirt of summer-sky blue, the glittery fitted knit of white and further, to the angelic blond locks that would have put cherubs to shame, that surrounded a delicate face, which, at the moment, was scrunched in a pout as she examined her work. 

 

Her fingers jiggled.

 

«Pass me a pinecone.»

 

Sunny scrambled. The pinecones were on the coffee table. He would have to parkour to get them.

 

«Dawn, do I have to remind you what happened last year?»

 

She looked down. Sunny almost stepped on the decorative icicles. The heavenly light was back. It was conspiring with the garlands, because they shone and glimmered as if Dawn wasn’t standing on a step ladder in the middle of their living room, but on some ornate stairs on her way to the most casual Christmas ball of all time. 

 

Dawn sighed.

 

«But,» he hands raised in exasperation. «I don’t think I can handle another year of Marianne getting drunk and making crude comments about putting mistletoe on things where mistletoe Does Not Belong. Not this time.»

 

"She does get very inventive, but I would like to give her a benefit of a doubt,» he muttered, picking through the bowl. There was no difference, really. A pinecone is a pinecone if you think about it that way. Sunny’s problem was that he wasn’t thinking about pinecones at all. «Let’s not forget, it’s a traumatic time of the year for her.» He finally settled on one and raised it to his shoulder. «Will this do?»

 

«A bit bigger maybe?» Her fingers spread in a bracket, big enough to fit a mug. He didn’t have one this big. Instead, he took a whole bowl and made it back to the tree and the step-ladder and a heavenly creature on top of it. «Yes, I realize that. But it’s been three years. People move on. People meet people. People don’t let one bad-”

 

“Horrible.”

 

She crouched down, skirt tucked between her slender knees and dug her hand in the bowl he trusted her way. The pinecones rattles around her fingertips, the same silly way the beans did when she stuffed her hand in the jar, eyes growing wistful and pensive.

 

«One horrible life-ruining break-up ruin their lives forever and make them swear of all future love and relationships that could possibly happen to them, as well as every other person around them.»

 

«Baby-girl, you are contradicting yourself.» 

 

«I know,» she sighed again, a concentrated frown easing into a crease between her eyebrows, sitting down, her legs dangling. «But we need her in a good mood, Sunny.  _ You _ need her in a good mood if you know what’s good for you. We also need to make sure she doesn’t spike the punch.»

 

«I think it will be the least of my worries when Marianne finds out.”

 

“Yes, when she finds out...” Her eyes fell on the pinecone in her hands, her breathing strained and raggedy. 

 

He touched her hands, gently, his wider sturdy darker ones covering her porcelain narrow ones. “Dawn,” her hand flipped to hold his. “You can change your mind. You don’t have to-”

 

“I do, Sunny. I want to.” Her eyes were wide and very blue. “I’m just worried. Really worried. It’s a big deal. For her. For us. For everyone.”

 

“Then we will approach it like grown-ups should,” he nodded in encouragement, watching that beautiful smile come back in all of its pearly glory.  _ I’ll probably be dead after that _ , he thought but didn’t say it. He was still pretty sure Dawn would be on her sister’s side, if she was trialed for his murder. “But you are right, getting Marianne in a good mood would be a start. Meanwhile, let’s check how those lights look.”

 

Dawn’s phone beeped. She hopped across the living room to answer. 

 

She stared at the screen for a second, her smile slipping. “Sunny?”

 

“Yes?” He kicked the remaining garlands into a neat little pile and prepared to box them.

 

“Whatever that something is, it better be good.” She lowered her phone and gave him a pleading look. “Marianne’s flight is delayed.”

 

The box fell on the floor spilling out its glittering bowels.

 

“God help us all.”

  
  


 

 

 

_ Marianne _

 

TooMuchSun: @ToughbyDesign ‘ouch are you alright?’ #ihaveabloodymarywithyournameonit (5m ago)

ToughbyDesign: @TooMuchSun ‘Do. I. Sound. Alright.’ #YesIsAWrongAnswer #MakeThatTwo (1m ago)

 

To say that Marianne was not in a good mood was to say nothing, or even less than nothing, if such a thing existed. In fact, she was pretty damn sure, she was in a worse of a mood than the whole of the airport, not that it was any of her concern.

 

And normally, it would have been quite easy to control herself. But it was Christmas, so someone was going to pay. 

 

To put it less lightly, Marianne was fucking pissed. 

 

It was two hours. Out of that, she was been sitting in the fucking plane for an hour, something about planes not flying, because planes tend to do that when there is a snow storm happening, except it’s fucking Christmas Eve and her sister’s boyfriend just tweeted her if she is alright.

 

And then, someone touched her foot.

 

By some strange miracle, her foot did not fly into that someone’s face. Which, as she discovered upon shifting her eyes from the screen, showed even less enthusiasm about their current predicament than hers, which was difficult.

 

“Miss,” said the man on the other side of the aisle, shifting his glasses on the edge of his nose, that was probably a consolidation price on the genetics lottery that he surely did not win. He was sitting as if someone tried to fit him into a world two sizes too small for him. “Unless you want to spend another hour or so in this State, I would suggest you cut down on your growling. Someone might think,” he leaned sideways, his height bloody allowing him to do so, and made a face somewhere between a sneer and a grimace of distaste. “That there is a wild animal onboard.”

 

Despite her current state, Marianne tended to think, she was doing quite alright really. There were certainly people who were in a far worse condition than she was: homeless, jobless, prospectless - all those things her and Dawn’s father thought Sunny to be, despite the latter having a decently paying place of employment and an upbeat outlook on life and generally good, if not slightly gullible, disposition towards all people (but that was what Dawn liked about him, probably). Marianne thought herself rather well-off, except for a small little detail that even after three months, her anger was still getting the best of her. 

 

Like at the moment. There was no other explanation as to why she leaned across the aisle - which came to her with more difficulty than it did to her neighbour, but she was pretty damn determined - and whispered, her mug twisted into an unfortunate scowl.

 

“Well, they let you in, so I think we are pretty good on that front.”

 

The man’s face did something absolutely incredible. First, it cleared, almost stretching vertically, which could not have logically been possible, it was so very long to begin with, and at part she was wrong, there was more a bit more winning genetics-wise than she originally suggested, like his jawline, not too shabby, or a high intellectual forehead, now scrunched up, or his eyes, which could compete with her sister’s if not in color, then in clear bewilderment they currently held. On the second thought, though, everything turned high definition, eyes narrowing, frown pulling his bushy eyebrows into a fine line, nose wrinkling (his eyewear stayed miraculously on, despite the whole earthquake of emotion happening), and the sneer, the sneer was back, as he casually gave her a one-over.

 

“Maybe you should pick on someone your own size,” he notified her in a hissing whisper that she bloody knew, since she herself made many such a sound in her attempts to calm herself. (They were very ineffectual.)

 

“I would suggest the same,” she replied, eyes crinkling, cheeks puffing up for a sweetest smile she could master. “But I don’t think people come in yours.”

 

The man huffed. “Touche.” His eye twitched. 

 

“Dear passengers,” the captain’s voice rocked through the cabin of the plane, making them both raise their heads. “Sorry for the delay. Looks like they are letting us take off in about 15 minutes. Thank you for your cooperation.”

 

“Hallelujah,” the man muttered. “Looks like I have to suffer just a couple more hours in your company. After that you can make some other poor sods miserable. Like your family, for example.”

 

“My family  _ loves _ me.” She lets the flight attendant pass between them on his check-up. “I’m pretty sure the only person who loves you is your mother. You look the type.”

 

“Do not bring my mother into this.” He waved his suspiciously long index finger at her. It was really close to her face. If it got any closer, Marianne decided, she was going to bite it.

 

“Oh no, did I just hit a sore spot?” She was so right about that mother thing. “Don’t forget to call her. She might be worried.”

 

He glanced at his phone, as the plane rattled, being taxied to the runway. Marianne counted that as a victory.

 

And then, against her judgement, the man smirked.

 

“I hope you understand that this means war.”

 

And Marianne, also against her better judgement, smirked back. 

 

“Bring it, momma’s boy.”

  
  


 

 

_ Dawn _

 

cutie_butterfly96: @ToughbyDesign ‘don’t do anything I won’t do’ #dontgetarrestedbyairportsecurity (15m ago)

ToughbyDesign: @cutie_butterfly96 ‘He f-ing asked for it’ #DontFWithTheBInTheSeat11C (8min ago)

ToughbyDesign: ‘Hold your purses, lads and gents, I think he just send me a drink and a love letter’ #lookatme #loveatfirstinsult (3m ago)

ToughbyDesign: ‘it’s not a love letter, he kindly wishes for me not to talk to him 4 th rest of our flight’ #boo (1m ago)

ToughbyDesign: ‘still might be love letter, it starts with “Dear Miss” and finishes with “Love, Bog” #nothisrealnameprobs #hesarealcharmer (1m ago)

  
  


There was a photo attached, probably of the mentioned letter, but for the first time in her life, Dawn didn’t feel like looking at it or anymore drama her sister was causing - though Marianne’s drama was always at least entertaining, despite the certain awkward angle it possess, like a secondhand embarrassment that this is her sister, and yet, it was  _ her _ ,  _ Dawn’s _ sister, in all of her brilliance. 

 

No, not today. 

 

“How is she doing?”

 

Sunny, dear sweet Sunny, was taking the whole situation remarkably well. Or at least pretended he did for her sake.

 

“Well, she already started drinking, but let’s hope that she will burn out by the time the plane lands.”

 

He plopped at the kitchen table by her side, the pon-pon of his Santa hat falling over his face. He blew at it, eyes focusing on one point that seemed to be right above the apex of his eyebrows. The white ball of fuzz swinged, but not much. “I still suggest a pitcher of the Bloody Marys and a key to the guest bedroom.” He made another attempt, as unsuccessful as the previous one. “That way we’ll know for sure.”

 

“Yes,” she nodded, and gave his hat a light tap, that send it flying one his ear. “But you know Dad, he is so excited to see her for the first time in months. And I would  _ love _ for her to meet your relatives.”

 

Her tea steamed in her cup. The wind picked up slowly, radio purring christmas carols in the background. The kitchen filled with the delicate aroma of cooking food, all things in order as they simmered and boiled and roasted, and in the doorway, on the other side of their small living room, now even smaller with the tree and the dinner table, the lights flickered in and out of existence. The Christmas Eve was slowly settling onto the world, and a part of her wanted for this moment to stop, with her and Sunny in the dimly lit kitchen, his relative on their way, her father driving over, even Marianne having a flight sass-fight with some poor stranger on her flight. Somehow, it was exactly like it was supposed to be. 

 

And yet, a smidgen of concern still lingered.

 

“Do you think it’s okay? For your family? I know it’s just your grandmother, and your cousin with his wife, but you can never be quite sure-”

 

He put his hands over hers - it’s become quite a thing for them today, what a silly thing, usually he is the one who worries - and shone her the best of his smiles, the kind that made her heart skip a beat every time.

 

“Dawn, if your Christmas isn’t already perfect, then nobody’s is. It’s like a Winter fairytale in here. Abuela will love it.” He winked at her as the foreign endearment slipped his tongue. He passed her her tea, thick with raspberry and nettle. “Hell, if anything, she might mention that you don’t have enough food on the dinner table-”

 

If it wasn’t her favorite tea set, she would have probably broken it.

 

“I don’t have enough food on the table?!”

 

“I’m not saying that she will think so-”

 

Dawn slipped around him to the fringe, fingers shuffling through the canopy of papers and magnets, to find the Christmas Dinner Menu, composed a month in advance and carefully approved to everyone’s gastronomic preferences, thus containing both red and white meats, gluten dishes, things without peanuts in them and similar sort of nonsense. Y _ ou are pulling fun out of food, Dawn, _ he said back then.  _ No one will care.  _

 

Well look at that now, mister.

 

“But she  _ might _ think so? Oh, sweet baby Jesus, I need to cook something,  _ fast _ .”

 

“No Dawn, I-” 

 

She waved him away, digging through the pantry. Maybe another pie? She can do a pie. No, a  _ tart _ . 

 

There had to be some vegetable mix in the freeze  _ somewhere _ .

 

In the kitchen, her cup raised from the saucer and then landed back after a suspicious sniff.

 

“I’m just going to write Marianne that she is not the only one going insane,” the phone lock beeped. “Maybe that’s make her life easier.”

  
  


 

 

_ Bog _

  
  


On the scale of good to bad, Bhraghad McKeeng was having a godawful time, courtesy of one petite lady on the other side of the aisle from him, who managed to simultaneously annoy the living hell out of him and text on her phone like she was writing War and Peace on it. 

 

Never before he regretted forgetting his headphones at his desk. 

 

(Really, he wasn’t even planning on flying this year, but mother and her threats of making his home address known to every single lady in waiting, as she called them - or her unfortunate attempt to hook him up with someone, as  _ he _ called them - and even worse threats to send his aunt to fetch him - let’s just say he had no choice in the matter. His only misgiving was that he did not get business. He should have.)

 

Despite everything, even the horrendous red wine in a plastic cup that he had to live through, he was keeping calm. He had the last Game of Thrones book, and he was going to focus on that, and hope that before long she would get bored, and-

 

The woman, still unnamed, raised her armrest and stretched her thin neck, trying to see what he was reading. He might have moved away from her slightly as she did. 

 

Her thumbs stocatoed over the sensor screen as she smirked. 

 

“A GoT fan, huh?” She paused, her heavily colored lips pursed (he wasn’t looking at her, he wasn’t, she just was in his peripheral vision), her little nose pointy with a slight upturn at the end, hand raising in a brash move to clear her hair from her face - and fine, he was going to admit that she was not  _ unattractive _ , but then again, he was told that his idea of beauty was slightly on the strange side.

 

Lost in thought half-way through licking his tongue to flip the page, he was caught off-guard when she suddenly appeared in his personal space and whispered in his ear (all sensual and almost intimate, heat flashing up his neck): 

 

“FYI, John Snow dies.”

 

Bog was pretty sure even the pilot heard him slamming the book shut.

 

“That’s it!” He banged his whole hand on the call button. 

 

The flight attendant, a postcard-lovely lady in her mid-thirties with a permanent smile glued on her face, hurried from behind the curtain and bowed between then.

 

“How may I help you?” she asked in a tone that had a slight, yet pronounced sympathy to it, except Bog was under the suspicion that it was rather for their neighbours, and elderly couple on his right side, napping away the turbulence, and young parents with an infant that they finally calmed down, and subsequently, fell asleep themselves on the crazy phone lady’s left.

 

Bog started at her in an conspiratory kind of way. “Hello, miss, do you have vodka,” he asked, even if the attendant’s eyes shifted to his wine with the question written on her face. “I’ll take two. Also tomato juice and some salt if you have any. Oh, and two glasses.”  

 

The woman nodded, still rather uncertain, and walked away.

 

“Oh, did I turn you to life of alcohol abuse?” The unfortunate encounter did a quaint little smile - the one where the corners of her mouth rose, and the cheeks plumped up, tiniest crow feet forming in the corners of her eyes (that were brown, but not  _ just _ brown, with a really dark outer edge, but almost golder at the iris, it was quite a sight, pun intended), while the eyes themselves visualised him getting stabbed repeatably. “I’d say about time.”

 

Bog dragged his bag from under the seat in front of him. It was difficult with this knees rebelling against the limited space, but he managed, stuffing his book inside, followed by his eyeglasses case with his eyewear inside.

 

“It’s Christmas, so I would like to make a toast,” he actually turned to face her, for the first time in a hour that she started to pester him. “But first,” he fixed the cuffs of his shirt to their their proper length. She stared back incredulously. “Introductions.” He stretched his hand at her. “I’m-”

 

“ _ Bog _ , I know,” she raised her hand, the coaster with his handwriting waving between her fingers. “I will cherish this eloquent correspondence forever.” She rubbed her face. “I was thinking about writing you a colorful response, but fine, whatever.” The coaster landed back on the plastic table and then his hand was unexpectedly and violently squeezed and shaken. “Marianne.” 

 

“Ugh…” His answer could wait. He had to check if his limb was in order. It was a bread part of his bread’n’butter.

 

The attendant came back with a tray. She looked less politely sympathetic and more concerned. 

 

“This will be the worst Bloody Mary known to man,” he said, his hands working in casual and confident moves. “But I think it will suffice.”

 

Marianne, the unbearable neighbour, watched him cautiously. “I think that’s less a cocktail, and more of vodka with juice, but alright.”

 

“It’s technically a cocktail since it has salt in it.” He handed her one of the plastic glasses and she took it, with a look saying that she doesn’t expect anything good. But she set her phone on the table and that’s the first step.

 

“Semantics,” the liquid swirled in her hand. “So what’s the toast?”

 

Bog straightened up, clearing his throat. It’s been a while, he thought, that with his gained superpower to dodge every single social function that the office wanted to send him too. 

 

“Marianne, it’s Christmas, even if some of us do not believe in the joy of the holiday, so I would like to wish you,” he tapped his glass against hers lightly, “That this year every single female member of your family starting with your mother would ask you when you are going to find yourself a fine young man to marry and have babies with.” 

 

Marianne pursed her lips and arched her eyebrows, her eyes widening and filling with a shine of what Bog considered a Christmas miracle. Despite the horrible combination of semi-warm alcohol and semi-warm juice coming down his throat, he felt more pleased than he did in the past month. “Merry Christmas.”

 

“Wait,” her free hand landed on his sleeve. A big part of him immediately wondered why it felt like a bolt of lightning. “I have a toast of my own.”

 

She took a small sip, smacking her lips and sticking her tongue out in disgust. “First, you are off cocktail duty forever. This is horrible. Second,” she pressed her knuckles to her mouth briefly, capturing a thought. “Bog - I still can’t believe it’s your real name - it’s Christmas, and I would like to wish you,” she stretched over the aisle and knocked their glasses together. “That everyone in your family, starting with your father, would tell you what a huge disappointment you are.”

 

Oh, OH, she’s  _ good _ . Not that he would tell her that.

 

The mix was even worse on a second go, yet he huffed, basking in his mock (or not - wow, this vodka was really doing its job) amusement.

 

“Joke’s on you, my father’s dead.”

 

“Yeah,” Marianne downed her drink, her face scrunching up in a way that indicated that she regretted that decision. “So is my mother.”

 

Oh.

 

Her face was still going the “horrible drink” jiggle, when she turned it his way. “You really haven’t thought this through.”

 

“Yes, it did sound a lot better in my head,” he nodded, and wondered if finishing his wine after this would be a bad idea or a worst idea.

 

Instead, though, a metal flask landed in his lap. 

 

Marianne, overhead light caught in her hair in complicated patterns, kicked her bag back under the seat.

 

“Let’s try this again, shall we?”

  
  


 

 

_ Sunny _

 

ToughbyDesign: ‘and now, after sharing the unnecessary personal information, we settled on getting drunk together’ #couldhavebeenworse #probsdeservedthat (15m ago) 

TooMuchSun: @ToughbyDesign ‘i’m glad you have a good time, bring some to this freakshow’ #sanityhasleftus (11m ago)

ToughbyDesign: @TooMuchSun this bad? can’t promise good time but can swing by a store on my way. need anything?’ (5m ago)

TooMuchSun: @ToughbyDesign ‘Beer. And other assorted liquor. Also Caprisun’ #weshallallneedit (1m ago)

TooMuchSun: @ToughbyDesign ‘I forgot to tell my girlfriend that my only parent figure doesn’t speak English’ #oops (1m ago)

  
  


The doorbell rang. Dawn, knife flashing in a manic repeated notion as she continued to cut things - where she was getting all these ingredients from  was a mystery - waved in its direction while taking another sip of her tea, and went back to making  _ another _ entree. 

 

Sunny decided that it would be better for their collective health if he just went and opened it. 

 

The first thing that happened when he did was a pair of two elderly arms that pulled him into an embrace, as a woman’s voice cooed at him in melodic Portuguese. 

 

“I take it you had no problems driving in this weather?” He patted her back, because Abuela’s hugs could go on forever, literally. Behind her, a huge hand took off a wooly hat of the same size and shook the snow of it. 

 

“They keep saying that the snow will let up for the night. I think we’ll be fine,” Pepe’s hands circled him over their grandmother’s and stayed. “Merry Christmas, brother. Now where is that girl of yours? Abuela kept talking the whole way about how glad she is that you found yourself a nice girl. Also she brought her Rabanada, and it needs to go in the fridge.”

 

Abuela pulled back and squeezed his cheeks. Her eyes were kind and slightly watery. 

 

“Oh no, don’t cry, please- Dawn! My family’s here!” 

 

The door clicked close, as Pepe’s wife shrug off her coat. 

 

“We really didn’t know what to get you for Christmas,” she passed him a large dish with something divinely smelling inside. “You don’t know how long it took to explain to her that you two aren’t married.” She leaned forward, long blond hair falling forward in a thin curtain. “I don’t think she really got it,” Lizzie whispered.

 

“Uhh…” Sunny started, but was interrupted by something crashing in the kitchen, as Dawn rushed out of it, half-covered in floor, her flowery apron askew. 

 

“Oh my, hello, I’m so glad to meet you, I’m Dawn,” she slipped past him, vigorously whipping her hands on a rag thrown over her shoulder. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! I’m really sorry, I’m such a mess,” she held out her hand to shake them, but then changed her mind, still continuing to talk, and went for a hug, that was gladly received, as his grandmother immediately let go of him to examine her. 

 

Sunny wanted to groan. The grandmother’s glasses were up from their place dangling on the strings, and as Dawn paused mid-sentence, Abuela turned to Pepe with something short and concerned.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sunny had to give it to Dawn, she kept her shining smile and all, despite slight panic in her voice. “I don’t think I caught that.”

 

Lizzie was way more helpful. “Oh, honey, she just said you are awfully thin,” she let Pepe take her coat. “Haven’t Sunny told you, she doesn’t speak English.”

 

Oh, he was in trouble. 

 

“No, no, he didn’t,” the look she shot him could have been interpreted as concerned, but only if you didn’t know Dawn well enough, which Sunny unfortunately did. “Please come in, make yourself at home. I’ll just... borrow my boyfriend for a moment.”

 

After that he was shoved back into the living room and, subsequently, the kitchen, hands full of Rabanada, and an irking suspicion that he won’t like the following conversation. 

 

Behind his back Pepe guided their grandmother to the chair in the corner. She looked at the served table and said something about feeding an army.

  
  


 

_ Marianne _

 

cutie_butterfly96: @ToughbyDesign ‘His Grandmother doesn’t speak English. I’m supposed to make a good impression how?’ (18m ago)

ToughbyDesign: @cutie_butterfly96 ‘hve u treid singinging heur na song’ #pfffbfprobelms (15m ago)

cutie_butterfly96: @ToughbyDesign ‘funny. how drunk are u?’ #FYI #dadwillbehere (9m ago)

ToughbyDesign: @cutie_butterfly96 ‘Im good. just yanking ur chain. it’ll be fine’ #tellmeheisntstaying (8m ago)

cutie_butterfly96: @ToughbyDesign ‘No, I’m sure the woman thinks I’m the worst host and a horrible person and dad isn’t even here, can’t wait for that to happen’ #callmethemomentyouland #imserious (5m ago)

ToughbyDesign: @TooMuchSun ‘i see what you mean. three birds, man, that’s you salvation’  #whothehelldrinkscaprisun (1m ago)

 

“Well, my sister officially lost her mind,” Marianne put the phone back on the table. The pilot promised they’d be arriving in Chicago in about 20 minutes, and their booze just ran out, no matter how small of sips they were making. 

 

“Is that who you keep writing? One would think you half-way through your own War and Peace by now,” her neighbour shook the flask with visible disappointment. Despite their rough start, at least they had a relatively same taste in alcohol. Figures.

 

She pulled it out of his loooong fingers, and stuffed it into her backpack. “Nah, she’s just having this Christmas party  - which I’m incidentally was planning to attend - and apparently there isn’t enough food - I don’t see how that is even ever possible, but  _ she _ thinks so.”

 

Bog huffed, like she told him an inside joke. “Oh, I know a person just like that. In the parallel universe, where I don’t have a metabolism of a hummingbird, I would weight about the same as a professional sumo fighter.” 

 

He rubbed his neck, stretching his back with a few soft pops. Marianne caught herself on swallowing. “Let me guess: it’s your… mother?”

 

The man by her side had a weirdest smile, like it sort of didn’t belong to his face, pretty intense in the way his eyes fixated on her, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but then - bam! A spark would pass through them, corners of his mouth rising, and he would look away, teeth biting his lower lip. It was… fucking cute, that’s what it was. 

 

It didn’t even begin to bother her that she called a thirty-something year old man in a expensive sweater-shirt ‘cute’. 

 

“Oh, what gave that away?” He was also a snarky asshole, but that was cute as well. 

 

Okay, maybe she had a problem.

 

“I would not be surprised if she picked you up at the airport,” she twirled her phone on the table, as the baby on her side woke up and announced it the world. 

 

The attendant, the same lady who provided them with terrible condiments, passed by, asking them for the usual “upright position” stuff. Marianne’s mood slowly started to slip into its original pre-flight state. 

 

“No, and I’m not looking forward to that taxi-ride, or that Christmas at home-”

 

“And if you didn’t?” Marianne spat out before the idea finished forming in her head. The plane shook slightly, going down. Bog regarded her incredulously. Marianne supposed it was better than examining the old people being adorable and holding each other’s hands as they looked out of the window. 

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“What would you say if I asked you to come with me to my sister’s shitty party instead?” 

 

Bog pursed his lips and stared pensively at the headboard of the chair before him. Marianne’s fingers fisted into the armrest. She told herself it’s because she hated flying, and especially landing.

 

“You know,” he smiled again, and Marianne swore under her breath, it was like he had no flipping idea. “If I call her and say that I’m spending Christmas with a girl, she’ll expect me to bring her over the next day to start planning our wedding.”

 

Marianne imagined some spirited woman -  _ spirited _ was the key word, that’s obviously what that woman was - planning her wedding to this man. She started laughing so hard, tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Bog regarded her like her hair just caught on fire. 

He made it worse.

 

Her hand was stretched over the aisle before the landing gear touched the ground, and she gleamed at him. 

 

“You’ve got a deal.”

 

The plane rattled, skipped and slid on the ice, but established landing strip dominance. Bog, the man with even less tipsy common sense than her, grabbed her hand, his eyes unreadable.

 

“I will have to make a phone call,” he told her. 

 

She bit her lip. “So do I. Oh, and we have to buy a pack of Capri Sun, fuck knows why.”

  
  


 

 

_ Dawn _

 

cutie_butterfly96: @ToughbyDesign ‘dad’s here. asking about you. abuela keeps looking at me like i’m doing something wrong’ #stuckinchristmashell #sendhelp (25m ago)

ToughbyDesign: @cutie_butterfly96 ‘I wanted to ask if u r still freaking out. I take that as a yes’ #fearnofurther #onmyway (10m ago)

ToughbyDesign: @TooMuchSun ‘got your capris. but i’ll need explanations’ #howsdad #weirdaseverorworse (7m ago)

TooMuchSun: @ToughbyDesign ‘he looks like he is just happy to be invited. concerned for dawn. she is still baking. she’s been baking for 3 hours’ #iloveher #pleasehelp (5m ago)

  
  


«Well, it could have been a lot worse,» Sunny muttered, peaking into the kitchen. “Baby, do you need help-”

 

“Don’t ‘baby’ me. I’m still mad at you and I need to watch the oven.”

 

Dawn never really worried about her cooking skill before. Why should she, really? Sunny was the least picky eater in the world, and allowed her to be as inventive as she could. 

 

Now, she just had a woman she never met before judging her every move and Dawn really really really wanted to be liked by her. 

 

Sunny kept telling her it was alright. On the other hand, Sunny forgot to tell her about one tiny little bit of information, so now she was one unexpected surprise away from crying, and she’ll be damned if that surprise would be burned Christmas cookies. 

 

Dawn should have knocked on the wood. 

 

The doorbell rang, making her jolt, and Sunny hurried away. There was some sort of commotion, a wild harmonious (and maybe drunk? she couldn’t tell) laugh of two people, and he popped right back. 

 

Simultaneously, the oven called for her attention.

 

«Marianne’s here,» he leaned into the kitchen, as she wrangled it opened and a tray of perfect cookies emerged from it.

 

«Finally,» a well-placed hip bump and the over door closed. «Did she get me Capri Sun?»

 

«She…” he paused, looking for words. The cookie tray started to burn through the oven mitts. “Definitely got something. Or someone, to be precise.»

 

“Good, good…” And then Dawn’s stomach dropped. “What, what do you mean by  _ someone _ ?”

 

The laughing in the hallway changed for hushed giggling, followed by an annoyed male “what hell is this?” and her sister’s “oh, a mistletoe”. Then came the silence. Her boyfriend leaned back to look at the happenings.

 

“Yes, your sister brought home a pack of beer, a pack of Caprisun, two suitcases and a very tall man she is now eating the  face off under the front door mistletoe.” 

 

The tray landed on the counter with a clank. Her mitts flew the other way. 

 

She marched through the kitchen door past him, and to the front door. 

 

Indeed, there was a very tall man there. Marianne looked like she was climbing him. 

 

Dawn coughted. 

 

Marianne and the man turned their faces towards her. Her sister landed back on the floor with an elegance of a potato sack. 

 

“Dawn, this is Bog. Bog - my younger sister Dawn.” She did the thing. That thing she always did when she was caught doing something that she didn’t: she flapped her hands about. 

 

The tall man also waved her hand. It was very large. “Hi.”

 

And this little part was enough. 

 

“Three years, Marianne. Three years of ruined family holidays and everyone being understanding, and hi, Bog, it’s very nice to meet you, I have nothing against you, just, I’m so sick of people keeping me in the dark, and all I wanted was this one family Christmas, one simple happy family Christmas, like in the movies, before I have this baby and just…” 

 

She sniffled. Again and again, and after that she was just standing in the hallway crying, and she vaguely heard sunny and his off-hand comment about everyone waiting for them, and let’s get this show on the road, and Marianne muttering affirmatively “you are pregnant” and growling “Bog, hold my backpack, I have a midget to kill” and then she was left alone with this man, another person she never met before, who shuffled awkwardly from one foot to another and then stepped to her, his wide hand landing on top of her head. 

 

“Congratulations?”

  
  


_ Bog _

 

He was never good with crying children, which grew into never being good with crying women, which in turn became never being good with both children and women, crying or not. 

 

Now Marianne left him in the hallway of her sister’s home, though with a remarkable high start, and the girl before him was practically bawling, her large blue eyes filled with tears, and he was lost. 

 

So Bog did one thing he knew how to do, or what his mother used to do to him in times of distress: he put his hand on top of her curly blond head, and petted it, letting her forehead fall against his chest. 

 

“Congratulations?” he murmured, and then there were girly hands around his waist and the girl was hugging him, still sobbing, tears staining his sweater-vest, but so what, screw the stupid thing. “Capri?”

 

She nodded with a hum, and he dug in his coat pockets, fishing out the packet. It had to be said, their trip to the 24-hour store was rather chaotic. Half of these were probably shop-lifted.

 

But he passed it too her as she untangled one hand and there was a problematic bit with a straw and piersing the bag, but they got even through that. The tears slowly dried, substituted by a cheer childhood joy, that filled the air with almost melancholic longing. 

 

Bog looked at the girl that looked like a postcard angel with a pack of juice. Unvoluntary, hand combing her curls, he smiled. 

 

“Kid, aren’t you a bit too young to have a baby?” 

 

The kid batted her eyelashes at him. “I’m twenty-three.” 

 

He opened his mouth, and then closed it right back up with a nod. “Fair enough. Aren’t you worried that she will-”

 

Dawn giggles in the girliest way possible. “Marianne? No, no, silly. Thanks to you, she seems to be in a good mood.” She snapped her fingers, and then stabbed him in the chest with one. “You are the flight-fight guy! Is your name really Bog?”

 

“No, how did you know-”

 

“Marianne life-tweeted the whole thing,” the empty packet crinckled in her hands and he automatically passed her the next one. “Are you staying for dinner?”

 

“I though this was a party.”

 

“A dinner party. I might have freaked out a bit and cooked too much food, trying to impress a woman who doesn’t speak my language. Do you speak Portugese?”

 

He shook his head. Dawn pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing for a moment. Then she smiled. 

 

“You should stay. I think Marianne would like it.”

 

In the living room, Marianne sounded like she was starting a WWII. That woman had enough energy to substitute each and every single reindeer in Santa’s sledge. That was exhilarating.

 

“If you don’t mind, I would love to.”

 

“Dawn, are you alright?” the older sister’s voice trumpeted through the corridors. “Everyone is starving and your main courses are getting cold and  _ someone _ owes me a pitcher of Bloody Marys. Also, Sunny promissed everyone an announcement.”

 

Dawn sighed, and stuffed the emptry packet in her coat pocket. She send him a wink. “Shh, don’t tell. I’ll get that tomorrow.”

 

She glanced at the mirror hanging on the wall and fixed a stray hair. Then her eyes shifted to the collar of his shirt and she fixed that as well. 

 

“Coming!” she marched on, but gave a little turn when he called her. 

 

“Don’t worry, Kid. You are extremely likable.” 

 

She flashed him a brilliant smile. And the cheekiest of winks, as she slipped behind the corner with a sly “Marianne, your date is still in our hallway!”

 

Immediately, the figure of one auburn-haired woman appeared in the doorway. She stopped there, looking at him, as if surprised he even was still there.

 

“Sorry, I had to tell you this was a family shindig. I understand if you want to leave-”

 

“I’m good,” he replied.

 

“No, I’m serious. There are people here  _ I _ don’t even know.”

 

“We had a deal,” he smirked as she stepped closer. “The boyfriend?”

 

“He’ll live. We’ve known him since pre-school. He is practically a brother.” She patted his coat, finally noticing that it was an actual coat he was wearing and hat she probably needed to take it from him. She proceeded to do just that. “I just had a brotherly talk with him. We’re good.”

 

“Good,” Bog nodded again. “Marianne?”

 

She weighted the coat in her hands, frownign at it’s weight. Her hand searched the pockets and found packs of capris. She snorted. “Yes, Bog?”

 

He leaned over her and pointed at the ceiling. “Mistletoe.”

 

“Cheeky as fuck,” she grinned and pulled him down by his long-suffered sweater. 

  
  
  


_ Epilogue _

 

Marianne woke up with a hangover. Marianne never had a hangover, but she surely did now, and judging by the noise a body sharing the bed with her made, she was not alone. The body was large, and very warm, and also incidentaly naked, which would have explained a man’s shirt thrown over two suitcases by the foot of the bed and also, how she had stuble rash on her face and  _ other places _ . 

 

“I thought,” said the body by her side, raising it’s messy, disheveled head from under the thick covers, “I was having a really good dream.” Two bright blue eyes stared at her, and something below her waist expanded, thrilled. ‘Like I was flying to have a miserable lonely Christmas with my mother, and then I encountered a rudest, most impolite and annoying manic pixie girl, and then we stole capri sun from a gas station shop for her baby sister who didn’t look her age and was going to have a baby. Was any of that real?”

 

If Marianne could nod, she would have. Instead, she hummed afirmatively.  

 

The blue-eyed face fell back on the pillow. “Fuck. Did we also-”

 

Marianne tried to shift her legs. Her thights fell heavy and slick. She threw her head back. “Yah.”

 

On the other side of the door, disturbing the casual softness of the morning, two people ripped papers and shared the joy of Christmas. After a soft pause and a quiet, discreet, and, as promissed, uniquely romantic and loving question, it also exploded with high-pitched “Yes, YES, of course, Sunny, of course I will! I do! Do I say “I do” or..? Ah, okay! I will!”

 

It made them both groan.

 

“He held his promise,” she rolled to her side, facing him - the flight guy, Bog. “Never underestimate the brother talk.”

 

“Live and learn, I guess.” He nuzzled the pillow. “Sorry, no Christmas present.”

 

“Merry Christmas,” she pulled the duvet and bared her chest. “Now get me a coffee and we’re even”.

 

He gulped. Then raised himself, clearing his face, and edged his lower lip with his upper teeth in another crooked smile. 

 

“My mother is going to love you.”

 

_ Yep _ , Marianne though as her heart did a somersault.  _ She was definitely in trouble. _

 

 

_ FIN _


End file.
